Red River of Consciousness
by TheAmethystRiddle
Summary: It was a stream but much bigger, a hundred billion water droplets all forming to fall unbearably onto his brain, and each of them bearing her face. Jane/Lisbon.
1. Heart

It got him off.

Maybe she knew it - probably she didn't, but that grin was for the tightness in his pants when she punched the guy in the face, for when she clipped the cuffs on him and hauled him off. That smile was for the time he spent at home curled up in a ball on his mattress and biting his thumb like a five year old as he thought his demented thoughts about her. The laugh was for the moments when he remembered that he had cheerfully defiled everything that he held sacred when he had chosen her.

What was faith in a world so blatantly godless? What was loyalty when men stabbed each other for nickels and pennies? So he justified himself, standing as closely by her grave as he could bear, falling to his knees because he knew it made no odds because she was dead. Why should he honor her with his celibacy? What better way to uphold her memory than by moving on? Yes, and what better way to destroy himself once again than by presenting Him with so similar a target?

No, he said. Yes, he said. He screamed no as the word yes passed his lips. No meant yes, and yes meant yes. Yes was the only choice. He had no control. What was control? A semblance of calm while the emotions boiled below. He could not endanger her like this, he could not endanger him like this, what about his wife? What about Him? It was inevitably about Him, and it was inevitably about Pain. What was the point, if not this?

And that. Was. The point. He had come to the conclusion that this feeling was a fabrication designed to cause himself as much Pain as possible, and this helped to ease the Pain. Except for those excruciating moments when he thought it might be real, especially when she was dancing around her room in that jersey and pouring herself drinks and all he wanted was to be down there and twirl her around just once, that's all he wanted, and it hurt so bad because he was giggling so hard but he had to be silent, silent. And at that moment it was real, so very real, and it wasn't until he could stand in front of that barbaric painting on his wall and take deep, deep breaths that he could convince himself that nothing should ever be real again.

And his heart lay writhing on the floor under the torrent.

* * *

**Jane is afraid. Mostly of everything, but especially of identifying. He's afraid of defining people and of defining himself. The two women in his life (and there are only two) - his mind can't distinguish one from the other. They're both simply "her". He assigns pronouns to the people he's afraid of because he doesn't want to define them by giving them a name. As a result things tend to get a little mixed up when he's talking to himself. Of course, I think we can all guess who He is. Because He's not God.**


	2. Head

His farce was a practiced one.

He was ever so clever, so witty and suave, so well-constructed and well-versed and ever so slowly losing himself to the rushing waters of circumstance. He found it more and more amazing that he could keep a straight face when talking to her, rather than succumbing to the madness and ripping her to pieces. Figuratively, of course. Of course? The red behind his eyes never traveled to his face, but the black had long since migrated to his soul. And, oh, the secret little metaphors and sick little allusions he made, all the things he said when no one was listening. As beautiful as she.

It made him sick. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, how many times should he list it before it was no longer true? Sick in a good way, in a way that tore at his guts and his mind and his heart, that organ so unrelated to love, and his lungs and his groin and his mind again. A cycle, a vicious, whirling cycle. Of something he would not call love. Not love. Never again would he love, he had sworn that would be ripped from him along with his wife and daughter. No love, never love, all he could think now was love. Ripping his mind apart to find the reason for his torture, all he could think was love. And again, love.

She was beautiful- no she wasn't! She was perfect- no she wasn't! She was a goddess, a work of art created by a god- no she wasn't! He was five again, fighting the truth with petty cries of disbelief. It was all the defense he had against the wrenching, terrible pain of not having her, of not wanting to want her but wanting her nonetheless. And she, so oblivious and wonderful in all her oblivion, so lovely in her relative innocence- for who wasn't innocent when seen next to him?

His mask was irksome. Irksome was the word. Nothing was as important as maintaining the mask, as keeping his carefully constructed façade standing between him and the rest of the world and especially her. But nothing was more desirable than ripping it apart and casting it in pieces at her feet, showing her the true man and begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what, he was not sure, but he was certain that by loving her he was doing her some irreparable wrong.

And the water pounded a death-march into his skull.

* * *

**Jane is not nearly so smooth as he pretends, nor so human. He might become more so if he could admit to himself that the pain is pain and not a desire for revenge. But he's more afraid of life itself than he is of his inhumanity. He's comfortable in the narrow-sighted territory that holds only himself, death, and Him. His problem is not that he doesn't realize he's in love with her, but that he doesn't know how to go about telling her. To be honest, he may have already lost what chance he had.**


End file.
